


Out In The Rain

by scarvesandjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Abusive Relationship, Angst, Cheating, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:22:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarvesandjumpers/pseuds/scarvesandjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Can't waste time. Every moment counts. Every second, every minute.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Out In The Rain

 

 

 

  
_Do you recall when you were young?_   
_You never worried 'bout the sun_   
_Now you know better so you say_   
_Just don't let sunshine fade away_

It's raining.

 

 

It's only rained four times during their meetings – their get-togethers, their weekly catch-ups – and Greg remembers every time. The first time it was unexpected – a fairly decent day that was violently assaulted by a sudden shower, soaking her to the bone. He remembers ushering her inside of the cafe, remembers draping his coat over her shoulders. Remembers how her skin was flushed, blotchy and pink.

 After that first time, though, they armed themselves with coats and umbrellas – after all, why let the rain stop them when so many other things hadn't?

Greg takes a drag of his cigarette, lets it out with a long, slow exhale. He's standing under an overhanging canopy roof, mostly because he forgot his umbrella in his rush to get from the office to the other side of town, partially because she always seems to look for him there. Line of vision and all that. Greg tosses his cigarette to the pavement and stomps it out.

Molly wouldn't like it if he smelled like cigarettes.

Her cab arrives at the usual time. Greg nearly wants to laugh at the pure stability that she provides. It's something he's never done, never really had, either, and there's some sort of poetic justice in that Molly has it. She looks up to him as she opens the door of her cab – they exchange a smile – and he dusts off the seat of his trousers while Molly pays her cabbie. He waits, patiently, for her to finish, and when she turns around he's right at her side. 

Can't waste time. Every moment counts. Every second, every minute.

“Alright, Molls?”

Molly grins at him, tucking a chunk of dark hair behind her left ear. “Alright,” she confirms. Greg, satisfied, hooks an arm around her, his hand resting on the small of her back. She lets him lead her into the cafe. The fabric of her coat is soft, and she's warm in his arm.

They take their usual seat – at a side window facing the street; people-watching is something both of them enjoy, something to pass the time in the tube or during a lunch break – and Molly cups her hands in her lap, waiting patiently for him to settle before initiating conversation. He likes that about her; she doesn't feel the need to fill every second with idle chatter, with chit-chat about this or that. She doesn't mind silence, and neither does he.

When Molly does speak she asks about work. It's been shit lately, which she knows, but he appreciates the effort and tells her that things have been grand. He sees the shift in her eyes; recognizing the lie, acknowledging, then forgiving it. 

After a sobering moment of silence Greg offers to get their coffees. Molly grins, nodding. “I've needed one for a while now. We should start coming here twice a week.” Yes, Greg agrees, they should. Neither of them mean it, and both of them know it. He feels wretched as he moves away from the table, hands stuffed in his pockets, and that isn't right at all.

He wasn't supposed to feel wretched here. He always did.

Their coffees are warm, steam floating lazily towards the ceiling as Greg hands Molly her cup. He sits across from her as usual; the table is small, their booth, tight. Their knees brush and bump together with every movement; after a bit of jostling they settle. Molly's feet rest between his; when she leans forward her calf presses against his leg. She doesn't move it. “How's the burn?” Molly asks. Greg's eye roll is nearly audible, and she grins impishly. “Peeling yet?”

“Yes, actually,” Greg replies smartly. Dorset had been an utter failure in more ways than one. “Peeling rather nicely. I can nearly make another me out of it all.” Molly laughs, and he laughs, too. When their laughter dies down he finds himself  admiring a drop of cold, icy water as it trickles down from her temple. Her hair is damp, frizzing slightly from the warm air of the cafe. When Molly catches him staring she clears her throat and smooths her hands over her hair. He grins playfully at her. She rolls her eyes, her smile barely hidden behind an unintimidating scowl.

They move on from there. They talk about work, football – Greg is always pleased to find someone to talk football with, and Molly being one of those few people was a rare miracle. They talk about Molly's cat, Toby, and his grumpy nature. She mentions that there's a leak in her faucet that hes been getting into; the city water has been making him sick, the poor thing.

“I could fix it.”

The words leave his mouth without his consent. He blinks hard, almost as if he's surprised by his offer, and when he looks to Molly he sees that she's just as surprised as he is. “That – that'd be great.” And it would be, too.

The topic shifts again after that. Greg's been fighting for a raise, possibly a promotion, and Molly's been doing the same. Greg figures that she's a shoe-in for both, and she tells her, too. Molly gives him a modest reply, batting away his compliment with a small, pleased smile. He's surprised that she hasn't gotten one already; she's smart. Frightfully smart. He's always thought so. Her legs shift, and her ankle slowly moves against his. Neither of them make to correct the accidental touch. Neither of them want to. A shared glance over their coffee cups shows that both are fully aware of what they're doing, and Greg finds it scary how eagerly they both fill the roles they have set out for themselves.

Molly doesn't ask about home, though she does ask about the bags under his eyes. He gives her a rueful smirk, because those two things go hand in hand and she's too clever not to know it. “Haven't gotten much sleep lately,” he replies slowly. He traces the rim of his coffee cup with his pointer finger. Molly's eyes follow it. “You saw the results of the Barns case. Been taking up my office most nights.” And Molly is no stranger to paperwork, so she nods sympathetically. After a beat he adds, “I think she's doing it again, too.” His finger stills. Molly's eyes snap up to his. “I've been... avoiding it. Her. Everything.”

She takes on a guilty look, and her eyes dart away. “I'm sorry, Greg," she manages. It sounds flimsy even in his ears.

“I am, too.” He's lying. He doesn't care anymore. He hasn't cared for weeks. She looks back up to him and nods. She understands. Shes always understood.

The topic changes again after that, and when he rests his hand over hers, when she curls her fingers around his wrist, squeezes once, and then lets their hands rest, joined and loose in a comfortable hold, he tells himself that this isn't a date no matter how much he wishes it was. No matter how much it feels like it is.

But it's when they find themselves laughing over a joke that no decent person should find funny, when he finds himself admiring the way Molly's face lifts with the lark of laughter that escapes her, when he squeezes her hand, when their fingers lace together and stay that way, he stops telling himself that it isn't.

He isn't Sherlock Holmes, but he's not stupid.

As the lights of London start to fade Greg finds himself contemplating the rain. He used to love it – the smell, the feel of the cold, hard beads of icy water pounding down his back. Becoming a copper changed that, of course. Rain meant damage to evidence. Rain meant three hours, if not longer, soaking wet. Rain meant waterlogged boots and an irritable team.

But Molly loves the rain – loves how fresh and new everything feels after it falls, loves how calming it sounds, loves the cool air – so he supposes that rain isn't all that bad.

When Molly notices that hes gone quiet, she gives pause, the easy, comfortable air draining from the room and pooling to the floor. Their hands are still laced together; Greg runs his thumb over her knuckles, and she relaxes and stiffens all at once. “Still raining,” he comments. Molly hums. “You smell like smoke,” she shoots back casually. He grimaces. He's grateful when she leaves the subject be. Grateful that she doesn't ask. He isn't ready to talk about the broken plates, the screaming, the yelling, and the desperate attempt to keep themselves together after the fighting ended; Deborah and Greg were a habit. But this habit wasn't as easy to break as smoking was.

They pay for their coffees. And, as soon as it started, it ends.

He lets go of Molly's hand when they're on the curb. His hand seems empty without hers, and he sees her fingers flex – he's not alone in that feeling. “Same time next week?” He asks. Molly nods, tucking her hair behind her ears. A stubborn chunk still rests innocently against her cheek, curling against the curve of her jaw. Greg's fingers ache to move it. 

His fingers ache to tear his wedding ring from his finger, to fling it down the road, to grab Molly, hold her, kiss her, touch her, simply  _be_  with her. He longs to whisper the endless praises that he feels for the young woman, longs to beg her to never be like Deborah, never let what happened Then happen Now, all the while knowing that it never would, because this is Molly, and Molly is good, Molly is honest, Molly is kind, Molly gets him in a way that Deborah never has.

These were normal feelings with Molly. He dealt with them each time he left her morgue. He dealt with them each time they met for coffee. He never indulged – not outside of the cafe that served their sanctuary (he'd picked it out by hand – there was a reason it was so far from Barts', so far from his flat, so far from the people they knew and their prying eyes.) He never indulged. He never let himself even contemplate it. Because then it would be real. Then he would be no better than her. So he tells himself he won't. 

And yet Greg's hand lifts. Molly gives a start as he brushes the lock of hair from her cheek – her eyes go a bit wide, because they'd never done that before, never tempted the lines of their already questionable friendship, and the feeling in his gut is a mixture of thrill and guilt. Her eyes seem to reflect that very same thing, and she stares. He gives her a reassuring smile. She gives him one back. His hand falls to his side, and she pulls out her mobile to call a cab. They wait under the canopy roof - Greg sees his abandoned cigarette on the pavement and crushes it a bit more - and their hands touch. Lace together. She squeezes his hand, and he squeezes back. He nods once, the movement hard and sure. And, just like that, an agreement is reached. 

The guilt in his stomach builds up, and he feels sick. He hates himself for what he's doing - for what he's doing to Molly, to Deborah, to his own life, even - but he can't resist. He wants this. He wants it bad. And Molly - sweet, lovely, wondrous Molly - wants it, too. 

Molly's cab arrives, and he reluctantly lets go of her hand. He walks her to the door, tugs it open, and ushers her inside. She offers to share the cab; the agreement is blaring in their faces, and suddenly it's all too much. He shakes his head, and Molly looks relieved. Too soon. Too, too soon. 

 Greg leans in, an arm braced on the frame of the door. Molly looks up at him.

“I'll see you around, Molls.”

She smiles, and it doesn't reach her eyes. She nods. “You, too, Greg.”

He closes the door for her. The cab starts off. Greg is dripping wet, freezing, really, but he doesn't pay any mind. When he turns and starts for the tube a wall of guilt crashes down on him, and he aches. He burns. He tells himself that this was the last time; it's too suspicious, too  _close_  to cheating, too much, and he fears that the agreement - silent, but deafening - will actually go through. So he'll prevent it. He won't meet with her again, not like this. He won't hold her hand, he won't kiss her, he won't, won't, won't, won't - 

But in one week's time he is standing under that same canopy roof.

 

 

It isn't raining this time. 


End file.
